


The Cresting Wave

by Straight_Outta_Hobbiton



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: Blacksmith!Louis, Cursebreaker!Albus, F/M, Gen, Gentry!Scorpius, Hedgewitch!Lily, Implied Black Widow!Lily, M/M, Post-Hogwarts, Ten Years Later, This is a little out there right out of the gate guys, bear with me though I have a plan this time
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2019-07-07 23:07:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15918126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Straight_Outta_Hobbiton/pseuds/Straight_Outta_Hobbiton
Summary: Albus Black, Lord of House Black and therefore technically not disowned, escaped his tiny life in Magical Britain the moment he finished Hogwarts. It's exactly what he wanted— an adventure, littered with beautiful people and rare magicks and freedom, most of all. Everything is perfect and Albus is... happy, one might call it.And then, Harry Potter dies, and everything changes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I imagine there aren't many people reading about Albus, but fuck it, I don't care.

“Six heads, you said? Did he have six more heads _ on top  _ of the original or did he sprout _ five  _ more heads and had six in the end?”

 

The woman sniffs wetly.

 

“Does it matter?” she chokes out, fingers trembling where they dig into the muscles of her own sunburnt shoulders. “Five, six, seven, _ twenty,  _ why does it _ matter?” _

 

The long-haired man rocks back on his shoulder, crossing his arms thoughtfully.

 

“Well, Garaitz,” he says, as if genuinely intrigued by his answer. “If he grew six heads, it would be a clean-cut African Mind-Splitter Enchantment. If he only grew five heads, however, it would be a Greek Hydraic Curse, which is a bit more complicated to break.” He leans back against the heavy silver bureau tucked into the little tent that houses the survivors. “So, I really do need specifics.”

 

“He grew six heads,” another woman says, mouth pinched tightly despite the split down the center of her lower lip. She meets his eyes sharply. “He had seven altogether.”

 

He smiles at her through his dark, braided beard..

 

“Well,” he says, clapping two, calloused hands together. “That makes my work much easier. Do we happen to have any cocaine? Also, are there any black goats available? I’m going to need at least one— preferably the coke, though I can understand if that’s difficult to get in fucking  _ Colombia.” _

 

He snarls the last word, startling the group.

 

“Ah— yes,” the second woman says, wincing as she pushes herself to her feet. “We’ll see if something can be found— we’ll have to go back to the city, however, if cocaine is necessary—”

 

The man rolls his eyes, huffing irritatedly. 

 

“That was meant to be a joke,” he informs her. “A rude one, based on unkind stereotypes of a beautiful and vibrant culture. I’m sorry.”

 

The woman blinks at him, uncomprehending. He realizes he said that in English.

 

“Never mind,” he says, holding up a hand. “The goat’s more important.”

 

She stares at him a moment longer, then nods.

 

“We know a breeder,” she says, gathering her robes around herself. “It will be here within the hour.”

 

He nods, then turns to leave.

 

“Mr. Black?” The woman calls after him.

 

He stops.

 

“Thank you for coming.” She seems to mean it, too.

 

“Don’t thank me ‘til the job’s done,” Mr. Black says. “There’s always the chance you’re information’s pig shit.”

 

And then he leaves.

  
  


*.*

  
  


It turns out it was the Mind-Splitting Enchantment, and the curse shatters under the blood of proper sacrifice— or the Western version of it, anyway. Two of those who'd been left within the temple even managed to survive long enough to be rescued, though there’s a bit of trouble regarding the decision as to which heads should remain intact.

 

Sighing, Mr. Black looks down at his hands, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together and watching the dried blood crust off and float to the ground. He’s not much good at these tearful reunion things, the occasional _ joyful  _ aftermath that follows the return of loved ones to their friends and partners. But he can’t leave this behind him, just yet— they’ve yet to pay him, after all.

 

Deciding to leave them to it, Mr. Black turns to return to his tent and wash up, pausing only to snag a water bottle as he goes.

 

His tent is very much a Muggle tent— it’s small, cramped, just a white tarp thrown over carved wooden sticks. But the fabric is made from acromantula silk, runes embroidered along the edges with blessed threads he picked up in India. It may be small, but Mr. Black is never too hot, never too cold, and never, ever, wet.

 

Dumping half the bottle into a small metal basin, Mr. Black shrugs off his faded brown vest and strips his bloodied shirt and drops it onto the floor, toeing off his boots for good measure as he tugs a white rag out of his bag and dips it into the water before scrubbing at his palms. The water and the rag turn pink under his ministrations, but he pays it not mind, leaning forward to peer at his reflection in the dollar store hand mirror he’s nailed to one of the posts. There’s blood on his face and in his beard. Great.

 

A shadow falls over the basin and he turns to see the woman from earlier— the one who’d told him it was seven heads. Her dark skin is shiny with sweat, her hair wrapped neatly under a colorful scarf.

 

“Mr. Black,” she says, dipping her chin. “You are not celebrating?”

 

Mr. Black turns back to the basin.

 

“Part of the job, that,” he says, bringing the rag to his face to wipe carefully at his cheeks. “I’m just waiting up for my fee.”

 

There’s a pause, and then, thin fingers wrap around his hand and the rag. He stills, turning to look the woman in the face.

 

She doesn’t speak, brow furrowed in concentration as she wipes away the gore, leaving behind nothing but clean, wet skin.

 

She stares at him a moment longer after she’s finished, then seems to catch herself, dropping the rag back into the water with a splash.

 

“You will be paid,” she says, looking away. “The money is being transferred to your accounts now.”

 

Mr. Black nods slowly.

 

“That’s good,” he murmurs. “Miss—”

 

“Missus,” she interrupts, smiling wanly. “Missus Gonzalez. My wife was among those who were killed when the traps were initially triggered.”

 

“... Missus Gonzalez, then—”

 

“Raysa.”

 

Mr. Black’s nostril’s flare.

 

“Raysa,” he says, tucking his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans. “What are you doing here?”

 

“I don’t know,” she admits. “I just… want to feel alive, I think. I think you could help me.”

 

Mr. Black stares at her.

 

“A one-off, then?” he asks, reaching out to slide his hands up to her elbows. “Something to ease the pain?”

 

Raysa nods, mouth firm.

 

“I could do that,” he says thoughtfully. He reaches higher, pressing a thumb to her lips. “May I, Raysa?”

 

She nods, and he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to her mouth before pulling away.

 

Raysa sighs breathlessly.

 

“Mr. Black—” she starts.

 

“Please,” he says, cupping her cheek. “Call me Albus.”

 

He leans forward again, waving a hand absently at the flap of his tent and sealing it closed.

 

She sighs into his mouth.

 

_ “... Albus…” _


	2. Chapter 2

Uncle Charlie’s house is as close to a homebase as Albus has known since he left England. It’s a pretty little place, settled precariously on the edge of a cliff overlooking the entire dragon preserve Charlie manages in Southern Romania. As Albus picks his way up the rocky path, he spies three— no, four— Swedish Short Snouts no bigger than bloodhounds playing by the path. Heidi’s clutch has hatched since he was gone, it seems.

 

As always, Uncle Charlie is waiting for him on the front porch, tree trunk legs crossed at the ankles and a beer balanced on the arm rest as he sits in his rocking chair. It’s warm enough that he’s only wearing a t-shirt, leaving the extensive scars that stretch across his arms to grow steadily pinker in the sun against his otherwise tanned skin.

 

Albus drops his bag at the door and slouches into the other chair, taking the second beer his uncle had left out for him and cracking it open with his teeth.

 

“Hey, Uncle Charlie.”

 

“Hey, Al. How was your trip?”

 

Albus sips his beer thoughtfully.

 

“Easy,” he says after a moment. “But messy.”

 

“Well, it’s always like that, I gather,” Charlie says, chuckling. “Between you and Bill, I’ve got a fair idea of the things you’ve got to do to counteract some of the old curses.”

 

Albus’ mouth quirks into a small smile.

 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “I reckon you probably do.”

 

They lapse into silence, eyes on the horizon.

 

“Al,” Charlie says after a moment. “I’ve… Your mother sent a letter, two days ago.”

 

Albus doesn’t twitch.

 

“Yeah?” he asks. “Anything interesting?”

 

Charlie sighs.

 

“Your father’s been in hospital,” he says. “Something gone wrong on a mission… she didn’t really go into detail. But it was bad. He—” Charlie pauses. “He passed, on Monday.”

 

Albus goes very still.

 

“... Dad’s dead?”

 

Charlie doesn’t look at him.

 

“Yeah, he’s dead.” He looks over at his nephew. “And you’re coming with me to the funeral.”

 

Albus doesn’t answer. He’s still frozen, eyes on the front garden.

 

Charlie grimaces and pushes himself to his feet.

 

“It’s on Thursday,” he says, turning to the door. “We’ll be staying with Bill.”

 

Albus still doesn’t answer him, but Charlie clearly isn’t planning on taking no for an answer. Patting him gently on the shoulder— a noticeable gesture, considering how much Charlie hates physical contact— he turns away and ambles back inside.

 

Albus doesn’t follow him, that night.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Lily hums quietly to herself as she shakes the shallow basket tucked between her bare thighs. The runes— carved into chips of dragon bone by her brother, though she knows he’s quite certain she thinks they’re from her Uncle Charlie— clatter inside, bouncing against each other as she tries to find the news.

 

After a few seconds, she stops, peering down into the basket curiously, tucking a lock of rusty red hair behind her ear.

 

“All the family, all together again,” she murmurs, smiling quietly to herself. “And just in the nick of time, too.”

 

She shakes the basket again, destroying whatever it was she saw in her runes, then sets it aside, replacing its lid without really looking.

 

“Lily-darling?” a man calls from inside. She sighs, feeling her cheeks warm with the sudden surge of happiness.

 

“Did you get lonely without me, Frankie?” she asks, turning.

 

Frankie smiles at her.

 

“Well, how couldn’t I?” he asks, just as bare as she is as he moves to lean against the front door. “You’re the second best part of this place.”

 

“Second best?” Lily repeats, arching an eyebrow. “What’s first, then?”

 

“Your bed,” he says, grinning good-naturedly. “I suggest we both return to it immediately, in fact— it’ll get jealous if we spend our morning on the porch.”

 

Lily laughs brightly. She likes Frank, she really does— he always says such funny things. It’s a pity he’s Uncle Neville’s boy. Her dad never liked when she got too close to the offspring of family friends.

 

“Well, I suppose we wouldn’t want to disappoint,” she says, rising gracefully to her feet and holding out a hand. “Lead on, Frank— just don’t look back.”

 

He doesn’t understand the reference— he’s always been a bit dim— but he smiles at her anyway, taking her hand and tugging her gently back into the house.

 

It’s enough.

 

It has to be enough.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Shell Cottage is exactly as Albus remembers it, isolated and beautiful where it sits just out of reach of even the biggest waves. His aunt and uncle are already waiting, eyes wide with cautious surprise as he and Uncle Charlie make their way up the sandy path.

 

It’s a little awkward when they slow to a stop in front of the house, the four of them apparently struck dumb thanks to Albus’ presence.

 

Merlin, he doesn’t want to be here.

 

Aunt Fleur breaks the silence first.

 

“Charlie,” she greets warmly, moving to hug him. “It iz good to see you are well.”

 

Charlie returns her hug after an awkward pause, lifting her just for a moment off her feet before setting her down again.

 

“As well as can be expected,” he says. “Nice to see you again, Fleur.”

 

“And Albus!” She shifts, pivoting herself so she can peer up at his face. “My, ‘ow you ‘ave changed.”

 

“... And you look just the same, Auntie,” Albus says lightly. It’s true, too— while Uncle Bill’s long, fiery hair is streaked with white, Aunt Fleur looks just like she always has— elegant and beautiful, without a wrinkle on her sharp, perfect face.

 

She hesitates, then throws her arms around his shoulders, squeezing tightly.

 

“Your brother and sister will be ‘appy to see you,” she says, burying her face in his half-braided hair. “We ‘ave missed you dearly, Albus.”

 

And maybe it was a little unfair of him to just disappear on his godmother like that, Albus thinks as he gently returns the hug. But it had felt right, at the time, to leave without a word, to make the promise to himself that he’d never set foot on British soil again. 

 

Breaking that promise to himself was harder than one would think, and Albus regrets it already, feeling his energy drain from his body as he’s shuffled inside for dinner.

 

“Louis will be downstairs in a minute,” Fleur says as Bill takes his and Charlie’s bags. “‘E ‘az only just come ‘ome from work and must make ‘imself presentable for company, first.”

 

“Where does he work?”

 

“The goblins offered him an apprenticeship with one of their finest smiths,” Bill says proudly. “The first wizard since before the founding of Hogwarts.”

 

“That’s fantastic,” Albus says, forcing a convincing smile. It’s likely the goblins don’t consider Louis a wizard, part-werewolf and part-veela as he is. Or at least, that’s what they probably tell themselves, if only to stomach the fact that they’re allowing a wand-bearer access to their sacred forges.

 

Albus isn’t going to say that though. Even if he’s right, it’s still a big deal, after all. The goblins keep their craft close to their hearts, so Louis must really be something special for them to accept him into the fold.

 

Shell Cottage hasn’t changed much on the inside, either, that much Albus can tell with only a cursory glance. It has the same, off-white walls cluttered with photographs, the same, too-fine furniture, and the same smell of rosewater and ocean air. Albus spots the picture he drew for his godmother when he was seven for her birthday, still hanging in place of pride in the dining room.

 

Fuck, that’s a little embarrassing, especially when his name is written in giant, childish handwriting across the bottom.

 

The thunder of Louis making his way downstairs echoes through the house just as Fleur is setting out dinner— which happens on this particular night to be grilled chicken, Albus’ favorite— and a moment later, Louis appears in the doorway, looking freshly scrubbed and exhausted.

 

“Hey, Uncle Charlie—” he freezes, eyes falling on Albus. “Al?”

 

“Surprise,” Albus says dryly. “How’s my favorite cousin?”

 

There’s a beat of stillness, and then, Louis launches himself into Albus, forcing his cousin to either catch him or topple out of his chair. Albus finds himself in the middle of both options— it seems that his cousin has put on a bit of weight since he saw him last, losing his mother’s leanness in favor of wiry, working man’s muscle.

 

“Ah, shit, c’mon, Louis—”

 

“You arse,” Louis says, face buried in Albus’ thankfully recently-washed hair. “You complete and utter arse. Would it have _ killed  _ you to write?”

 

Albus sighs, rubbing Louis’ back before pulling away.

 

“Sorry,” he says. “I’ve been busy.”

 

Louis plops himself in the chair between Albus and Charlie, giving his uncle a cursory hug before turning to face Albus properly.

 

“So I’ve noticed,” Louis says. “Britain knows all about you, Al— you’ve been all over the papers since you found that temple in Cambodia. I’ve still got all the clippings upstairs.”

 

“Wait, what?”

 

Bill clicks his tongue, grinning broadly.

 

“Really now, Al,” he says, reaching for the potatoes as Fleur settles into the chair beside him. “You didn’t really think the stunts you’ve been pulling have gone unnoticed, have you? You’re a bona fide celebrity among cursebreakers, not to mention a national hero in some fifteen countries. You’ve got medals and everything.”

 

Albus makes a face.

 

“Morganna and Mordred,” he mutters, rubbing at his temple. “I thought all I was going to have to worry about was dodging Skeeter.”

 

“Yes, well, she’ll probably be there too,” Bill reassures him good-naturedly. “But there’ll be at least fifty reporters looking just to interview _ you,  _ once they realize you’re there— especially since you don’t seem to have a home address for people to pester you at.”

 

“Of course not— I don’t have time for that sort of thing.” Albus barely has a moment to himself, most days, not between travel and research and experimental blood sacrifice. “You really think people are going to want to talk to me?”

 

“Albus, don’t be naive,” Fleur says, arching an eyebrow as she passes her youngest child the salad bowl. “Even if you’d spent ze last decade living as a worm under a rock, zey would want to talk to you. Who doesn’t love a prodigal son, especially one so mysterious and powerful as the second son of ‘Arry Potter?”

 

“Vultures,” Charlie mutters, tucking in.

 

Albus very heartily agrees.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I accidentally marked this as complete, which I didn't mean to do. That's what I get for not checking, though. Anyway, here's the next chapter. Hope it doesn't suck.

After dinner Louis invites him for a walk along the beach. Feeling a little claustrophobic, Albus agrees. He forgot how… overwhelming, his family is.

 

“Does your mum know you’re here?” Louis asks after a few minutes, veela-blue eyes peering at Albus from under his reddish hair.

 

“Not unless Uncle Charlie told her I was coming.”

 

Louis hums thoughtfully, reaching out to tangle his fingers with Albus’ like he used to when they were kids.

 

“It’s good you’re back,” he says quietly. “It wasn’t the same without you around. That first Christmas… Scorpius was a mess.”

 

Albus winces.

 

“I should probably write him,” he says softly. “See him before I leave.”

 

“He’ll be at the funeral— you can arrange something there, provided he doesn’t turn your face into a pulp.” Louis’ lip quirks. “He’s become something of an eccentric, since you left— he’s taken up Muggle hand-to-hand, in his free time.”

 

“I saw he got his Mastery in Ancient Histories,” Albus says. “Uncle Charlie had the clipping from the _ Prophet  _ for me when I came to visit.”

 

“Yeah,” Louis agrees. “Put it to good use too, recently— he was helping Uncle Harry with a few things, before… yeah.”

 

Albus sighs.

 

“What happened, Louis?” he asks. “Do you know anything?”

 

Louis sighs.

 

“A few months ago, Uncle Harry asked Scorpius to help him with a case,” he says. “Scorpius wouldn’t tell me what it was, but he was up to his elbows in research, trying to figure whatever it was your dad gave him. It was right after he got his Lordship, though, so I don’t know how much of the work was a distraction and how much was… y’know. Necessary.”

 

“Mr. Malfoy’s dead?”

 

Louis nods gravely.

 

“Nearly a year ago, now,” he says. “Heart trouble. Same thing that took his grandfather, as I understand it. Your dad tried to help, I think, in his own way… Scorpius was pretty close with him, by the end… but I think he could be better.”

 

Albus watches his cousin carefully.

 

“You’ve been taking care of him for me, haven’t you?” he asks, words gentle.

 

Louis sighs.

 

“Least I could do,” he says. “Scorpius is an alright bloke, and anyway… I didn’t think you’d appreciate it if he offed himself before you decided to come home.”

 

Albus’ fingers tighten around Louis’.

 

“I’m not staying,” he says quietly. “I can’t.”

 

“Don’t see why not,” Louis says, slowing to pick up a light pink shell. “After all, Lily stayed, and everybody thinks she’s completely mad.”

 

“What? _ Why?” _

 

Louis shrugs.

 

“Rumor has it she’s a Black Widow,” he says. “She started hanging out with Dita Zabini, and suddenly, her boyfriends kept dying and leaving her loads of money, and she moved out into the middle of the nowhere to make potions and read runes and shit. She’s left her wand behind completely, apparently, too busy mastering the Old Spells.” He pauses. “She seems alright when I see her at family dinners. A little batty, but alright.”

 

“Well, dad never minded Black Widows,” Albus says after a moment. “He always was nice to Lady Zabini, anyway. How’d mum take it?”

 

Louis smiles wryly.

 

“She called her a disgrace to the Potter name, I think,” he says. “She’d had a bit too much to drink. Jay took her home after that, though, to calm down and keep her from making a scene at Hugo’s graduation party. Lily didn’t seem to care much, either way.”

 

“Mum always had terrible timing,” Albus says, frowning. “Bet Aunt Hermione was pleased.”

 

“She rather agrees with Aunt Ginny, I think,” Louis says nonchalantly. “She never much liked Divination, and disapproves of slicing open live animals to read the future.”

 

“She would,” Albus agrees. “Should we head back?”

 

Louis hums.

 

“You’re sharing with me,” he says. “And I’ve got a bottle of Firewhisky stashed in my wardrobe.”

 

“See, stuff like this is why you’re my favorite cousin.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


Harry Potter is buried in the family cemetery, on the edge of Potter’s Moor, the ancestral home of the Potter Family. It wasn’t used much, when Albus was young— only for New Year’s parties and the occasional anniversary— but even with those memories, he isn’t prepared for the damp beauty of the wild, rolling hills that stretch out for miles, Potter Manor only a distant, fuzzy shape on the horizon.

 

The cemetery itself is nearly full to bursting with people, dressed in a mixture of all-white, all-black, or Auror red, depending on their background. Ministry officials, members of the Order of the Phoenix and the DA— even Uncle Dudley and his wife are there, his daughter likely having found her own circle of Hogwarts graduates to talk to while her parents made awkward conversation with Uncle Percy.

 

(Albus can appreciate the irony of Uncle Dudley having a magical child, even if he did make up with Harry.)

 

Albus himself has gone with white for the funeral— it’s traditional, and anyway, all his black things are in the laundry.

 

No one seems to recognize him, which is a blessing. With any luck, he can avoid any trouble, say hello to Scorpius, and be on his way before he’s noticed by—

 

“Al!”

 

Damn it. Well, it’s only Lily. Albus never had any problems with his sister. Only his mum and dad and older brother.

 

“Hey, Lily,” Albus says, opening his arms to accept her hug. His sister has gone with black, for the occasion, her floor-length cotton dress embroidered with white flowers that Albus thinks are probably lilies, because they’re always lilies.

 

She presses a kiss to his bearded cheek, smiling despite the redness of her eyes.

 

“It’s good to see you, Al,” she says, pulling back to look at him properly. “I wish it wasn’t for such a dreadful reason.”

 

There’s a pang in his chest. He had missed his sister dearly— after Charlie, she’s the only one he’s bothered to have any contact with since he left, passing along presents through Charlie for her birthday.

 

“I’m sorry, Lily—”

 

“You’re not,” she interrupts kindly. “But it’s okay. I understand.”

 

“Lily,” barks another voice harshly from behind Albus. “I thought I told you not to bring any of your boys to—”

 

“Jay, come here and say hello,” Lily says, cutting him off. “Can’t you recognize our own brother?”

 

Albus feels himself go cold. Slowly, he turns, setting eyes on James for the first time in almost a decade. He has to look down to meet his eyes— apparently, he’s taller than James now, a good six inches separating them.

 

James’ eyes rake over Albus’ face, expression unreadable as he stares at his brother. There’s a beat of tense, uncomfortable silence, and Albus distantly wonders if he’ll be able to apparate away or if he’ll have to call Kreacher if James draws his wand.

 

“Al,” James croaks suddenly, startling Albus out of his reverie. “You’re home.”

 

Albus swallows.

 

“Couldn’t stay away, could I?” he says, which is a blatant lie. He wouldn’t have come at all if Uncle Charlie hadn’t made him. Hell, he wouldn’t have even known.

 

Suddenly, he has his arms full of sibling. Albus has been getting hugged a lot, these past two days. It’s all very un-British.

 

“You _ fucker,”  _ James mutters into his ear, words muffled by Albus’ hair. “Do you realize how  _ worried  _ we’ve all been about you? Not a bloody word from you, and then when we _ do  _ get news all we hear is that you’re kicking down the doors to cursed tombs and finding lost bloody cities!”

 

His grip is weak, his stance stiff like something’s wrong.

 

“Look who’s talking,” Albus says dryly, prodding at James’ middle and getting a hiss for his trouble. “You haven’t been living a particularly safe life either, Jay. Broken ribs, or cracked?”

 

“Bruised,” James admits, letting go of Albus’ shoulders to press a hand to his agitated ribcage. “During the mission.”

 

Albus blinks.

 

“You mean the one that…” he trails off, glancing over at the tomb at the front of the crowd.

 

James’ jaw clenches.

 

“Yeah, that one,” he says tightly. “Our cursebreaker wasn’t thorough enough, it seems. It took him and the Scamander twins out before we managed to escape. Dad died a few days later.”

 

“Shit,” Albus hisses. “How’s Aunt Luna?”

 

“She hasn’t spoken since James gave her the news,” Lily says sadly. “I’ve been trying, but…” She bows her head. Luna is her godmother and namesake, after all— they’d always been very close.

 

“Come on,” James says, changing the subject. “Let’s go show you to mum. Seeing you might cheer her up.”

 

Albus very much doubts it, but he follows his siblings anyway, avoiding any and all eye contact as curious guests look his way.

 

His mother is at the front, seated and still as a statue, eyes forward and back straight. She’s chosen to wear black, her face half-hidden by a veil. The clothes she’s wearing aren’t her usual style— it’s likely that one of the Potter elves chose it for her, which isn’t a good sign. She never lets the elves dress her, if she can help it.

 

“Mum,” James says as he takes the seat beside her, touching her shoulder. “Mum, look who it is.”

 

His mother turns her head just slightly, meeting Albus’ eyes with a blank stare. After a moment, her gaze clears.

 

“Albus?” she whispers, eyes widening with surprise. “You’re here?”

 

Albus swallows.

 

“Yeah, mum,” he says quietly. “I’m here.”

 

She holds out a hand, and he takes it, crouching in the grass in front of her.

 

“You wore white,” she remarks quietly. “So many people wore white. Your father would have hated that.”

 

“Sorry,” he says, even though he knows his dad wouldn’t and doesn’t care, being dead and all. “I… it was the nicest thing I had.”

 

Ginny sighs, and there’s a sort of exasperated familiarity in the sound.

 

“At least you came,” she says, more to herself than to him. “That’s better than nothing.”

 

That… pretty much sums up everything Albus thought about his relationship about his mother, really. Still, it’s his mum, and Albus would like to be more than a little useless, so he pushes himself up, pressing a kiss to her freckled cheek before straightening.

 

“I’ll be sitting with Uncle Bill and Aunt Fleur,” he tells her. “If you want me.”

 

“Of course not,” Ginny says. “You’ll sit with us, where you belong.”

 

Well, Albus isn’t about to argue with her. He nods instead.

 

“Alright, mum,” he agrees.

 

There’s the sound of a bell, and the guests begin to gather. Albus takes the seat beside Lily on James’ other side, and pretends he can’t feel the eyes burning into his back.

 

The funeral of Harry James Potter begins.


	4. Chapter 4

Afterwards, lunch is served in the formal dining room of the main house. Albus sits with his mother, brother, and sister for the duration of the main course, then takes a turn around the room in search of Scorpius.

 

He finds him rather quickly, tucked in a corner with Louis and a woman in Auror red that he doesn’t know the name of but recognizes, distantly.

 

Albus hesitates at the sight of the blond. Scorpius doesn’t look like he did ten years ago, which of course he wouldn’t, but the shock is… it’s something. Long gone are the days of close-cropped hair and a slender-bordering-on-skeletal physique. Scorpius looks like a man, now, shoulders twice as broad as Louis’ and muscles bulging just slightly through the thin fabric of his long white coat. His hair is long, now, almost as long as Mr. Malfoy kept his when they were children, his bangs pulled back into a neat braid at the back of his head. In contrast to Albus’ beard, Scorpius’ cheeks are bare, having apparently gone the route of Anton LaVey, instead.

 

He hesitates too long. Scorpius catches sight of him before he can think of something to say, eyes going wide as he loses the thread of whatever he was talking about as he moves to stand in front of Albus.

 

“You’re still shorter than me,” Albus realizes aloud before clamping his mouth shut.

 

Scorpius stares at him a moment, thin mustache twitching.

 

“I don’t know why you thought I wouldn’t be,” he says, arching an eyebrow. “You know as well as I do I finished growing by sixth year.”

 

There’s another pause.

 

“I… sorry,” Albus says awkwardly, rubbing at his neck. “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say.”

 

“Neither am I,” Scorpius admits. “I’d hit you, normally, but this isn’t the time or place, and I’d probably kill you if I did, anyway.”

 

There’s a bandage plastered across the bridge of his nose, and a piece of gauze taped to his cheek. Louis had mentioned he’d taken up hand-to-hand combat.

 

“I heard you’d taken up getting hit for fun,” Albus says.

 

“Hey, that’s not fair. I hit back, too.” Scorpius gives him a crooked smile. “And anyway, you’ve no room to judge. I’ve seen the papers, you know— you always did take those Indiana Jones movies too seriously.”

 

“I’m— no— _ you said you didn’t like those movies,” _ Albus says, indignant. “You said it was a waste of time watching them and slept through most of—”

 

“I lied.” Scorpius gives him a bright smile. “Proper Purebloods don’t like Muggle stuff, you know.”

 

Albus stutters, trying to come up with something clever to say before giving up with a sigh.

 

“I dress _ practically,”  _ he says, crossing his arms. “It’s not my fault the Muggles had an idea of what to wear when wandering around ancient ruins.”

 

Scorpius snorts.

 

“You haven’t changed,” he says fondly. “I thought you would have changed, but you haven’t. You’re still the same old Al.”

 

“Nonsense,” Albus says. “I have a beard now.”

 

Scorpius makes a face, like maybe he wants to laugh but is far too well-bred to do so at a funeral, and jerks his head in the direction of Louis and the woman.

 

“Come on, Al,” Scorpius says. “Let me introduce you to Miss Beverly Bones. She was three years behind us, in school— with the Scamander twins.”

 

Beverly holds out a hand, which Albus shakes, because kissing people’s hands is weird and uncomfortable.

 

“Nice to meet you, Auror Bones,” he says, giving her a brief smile. “Though I wish it could have been under better circumstances.”

 

“I feel much the same,” Beverly says. “Your father often spoke of your exploits, when they hit the British papers. He always liked reading about your adventures.”

 

“Did he?” That’s strange, considering his parents had forced a year of homeschooling down his throat after that incident with the Time Turner, and that was far less dangerous than most of the situations he’s found himself in since.

 

Beverly nods.

 

“He did,” she says. “He thought you were rather happy in your chosen field.”

 

“I… I am, yes.” Albus shifts uncomfortably. “Sorry, but— were you very close with my father?”

 

“He was my mentor,” Beverly admits, smiling thinly. “Taught me everything I know.”

 

Oh, well, that explains it, then. His dad was the kind of teacher you kept in touch with after you graduated— at least, that’s the explanation most of the DA gave Albus when he’d asked, back when he was young enough to get away with invasive questions like that.

 

“Beverly was just telling us about a case she’s been working on,” Louis says, leaning against Albus’ shoulder absently. “Apparently, someone has been selling transfigured puppies to Muggle families.”

 

“... But inanimate to animate transfigurations aren’t permanent,” Albus says after a moment. “They’d be turning back into whatever they were within a few days.”

 

Beverly nods tiredly.

 

“It’s been going on for months, we think,” she says. “But we didn’t get wind of it until last week. The Muggles had taken the thing to a dog park— it turned into a beer glass mid-leap. Thirteen people saw it.”

 

Albus whistles.

 

“Damn, that’s one hell of a mess,” he says. “Any suspects?”

 

“A few, but nothing solid to go on.” Beverly sighs. “If you happen to know the whereabouts of Mundungus Fletcher, though, that would be immensely helpful.”

 

Mundungus. Of-bloody-course.

 

“Last time I saw Dung, he was on the wrong end of a gun in Shanghai,” Albus remarks idly. “He was trying to pass an enchanted hand-and-a-half off as Excalibur to a couple of Japanese collectors.”

 

There’s a beat of silence.

 

“... Dung’s gone international?” Louis asks, incredulous. “He hasn’t got the smarts for it, does he?”

 

“He really doesn’t,” Albus agrees. “But he’s dead scared of dad—” he stops, grimacing—  _ “Was  _ dead scared of dad, especially after he made Head Auror. He was stealing from Grimmauld Place, you know, back when dad was in school. Dad nearly strangled him when he found out.”

 

“Did he?” Beverly says, tilting her head to one side. “Potter never struck me as a particularly violent man.”

 

“You clearly never saw him pissed off,” Albus says. “Broke every piece of glass in my room, once, when I was fifteen, just with the force of his magic. I had to go to St. Mungo’s.”

 

He suppresses a shiver at the memory. He’d informed his father he was planning on taking his NEWTs alongside his OWLs, aiming for early emancipation. His father hadn’t taken his comparison of homeschooling to Azkaban well.

 

Albus had been re-enrolled in Hogwarts a week later, an apology and a warning rolled into one.

 

Louis’ hand slaps against his stomach.

 

“Change the subject,” he hisses. “James is coming over.”

 

Without a hitch, Albus’ words roll easily from childhood trauma to something lighter.

 

“The problem with most ancient burial sites is that some Muggles had the good sense to protect the belonging they were buried with with magic,” he says, sensing more than seeing his brother pause behind him to listen. “Before the Statute, it was perfectly normal for a well-off Muggle to go to their village witch or wizard and ask for spells to keep graverobbers at bay, and since there was no widespread form of conformist education, every curse I come up against is just a _ little  _ bit different— and if I can’t figure out exactly how, it could end pretty badly.”

 

“Hello, Jay,” Louis chimes in like he hadn’t warned them of his arrival seconds earlier. “Alright?”

 

Albus turns in time to see James give their cousin a tight smile.

 

“As well as can be expected,” he says, and there’s a stilted not in the way he says it that makes Albus think he’s repeated that particular line a lot these past few days. His eyes dart between Albus and Scorpius. “Al, Scorpius, could I have a minute? In private?”

 

“Of course, James,” Scorpius says immediately.

 

“Yeah, sure.” Albus looks over at Louis and Beverly. “Do you mind?”

 

“Not at all,” Louis says, giving him an easy smile before offering his arm to Beverly. “Me and Bev will keep each other company, right?”

 

Beverly nods, hesitating a moment before slipping her hand around around Louis’ bicep. He leads her away with a last nod at his cousins and Scorpius before turning his attention fully to Beverly, who flushes under the force of his Allure.

 

There’s a beat of silence between the men, broken only when James sighs.

 

“Come on,” he says, jerking his head towards the entrance to the servants’ stairs. “I’ve got an office upstairs we can use.”

 

Albus blinks.

 

“You’ve got an office here?” he asks, falling into step beside his brother as Scorpius moves to bring up the rear.

 

James nods curtly.

 

“Dad moved us here a few months ago,” he admits, pausing to let Albus and Scorpius step into the hidden hall before closing the entrance behind them. “It was safer.”

 

“Safer?” Albus frowns.

 

James nods again but doesn’t elaborate, reaching into his sleeve and pulling his wand to light the torches lining the walls.

 

“There’ve been a few things,” Scorpius murmurs, silver eyes glowing gold under the firelight.  _ “Worrying _ things.”

 

“Wait until we’re in private,” James says sharply. “The walls have ears, even in this place.”

 

That is… very troubling, but Albus keeps his peace, frown deepening when he sees Scorpius duck his head at James’ words. He doesn’t like that. No, he doesn’t like that at all.

 

James’ office is basically just a personal library with two desks settled in the center of a whirlwind of papers and parchment, clearly thrown about in a fit of anger, or maybe grief. A blackboard is settled against the large window, a strange, somehow familiar alphabet scrawled across it in chalk beside what appear to be translations. Albus manages to make just a piece of it, written in his father’s near-illegible handwriting, before James demands his attention once more.

 

_ … And the claw of the crown shall pierce the heart of the ‘pard… _

 

“Six months ago, there was a disturbance up in Belfast,” James says, righting a chair that had been lying on its side before collapsing into it, careless of the way he rumples his fine black robes. “Dad sent a squad of Aurors to look into the disappearance of a small Muggle family, including their young Magical son. Sit down, will you?” he barks at Scorpius. “The pages will keep as they are.”

 

Scorpius starts, the thick scrolls he’d been juggling toppling to the floor. He doesn’t move to pick them up again, instead scurrying to a decidedly less comfortable looking chair by the other desk.

 

Albus gives his brother a hard look, daring him to try and use that tone with him.

 

James doesn’t.

 

“The house was empty, as expected,” he continues, ignoring Scorpius completely. “But there was a trace Magical signature, easy enough for the squad to track. They followed it nearly seventy miles, where it ended in Purity Forest— the unicorn sanctuary.

 

“They found a massacre.” James’ face twists into a grimace. “The Muggles were hanging from the trees, drained of blood, alongside others who’d been hanging even longer. The boy, though…” he trails off, shaking his head. “They didn’t know what they were looking at, so they called for backup. Dad took point, brought along my squad and Beverly’s, and we went to see.”

 

He leans back in his chair, fiddling absently with a broken quill on the desk.

 

“The boy,” he says slowly, like he can’t quite get the words out. “Was torn to shred, his limbs stretched out over an altar. Some of the blood that had been harvested from his family had been used to draw markings along the edges. We didn’t know what they were— didn’t really care, either, because— because—”

 

“Because the boy was still alive,” Scorpius whispers, wringing his hands where they rested in his lap. “His lungs still expanded with every breath, his heart was still beating, and his— his  _ head—” _

 

He cuts himself off with a violent shudder.

 

“He cried,” James says roughly, running a hand through his carefully tamed curls. “He cried and begged for us to make it better, but we couldn’t touch him. There was some kind of— _ shield, _ keeping us from him. Dad thought this might be some kind of ritual, but none of our cursebreakers could make heads or tails of it. That’s when he called Scorpius in.

 

“He thought the markings might have a link to one of the Old Languages of Magic,” he continues. “Scorpius was the only expert in the Isles, so Dad had Beverly use that damned camera she’s always carrying around and bring him what we could to be translated. Except, when the photos came out, the altar was bare— no boy, no blood.” He glances over at Scorpius, then. “Dad had to bring him to the site so he could take a proper look.”

 

“It was horrible,” Scorpius groans, hiding his face in his hands.

 

“Yeah,” James agrees.

 

“Were you able to figure out the purpose of the ritual?” Albus asks, looking over at Scorpius.

 

The blond shakes his head.

 

“No. The language itself is called Gr’ishaark, but it’s not particularly well-researched,” he says, rolling his shoulders and straightening to meet Albus’ eyes. “However, it’s believed to be of proto-Slavic origins, though it’s shown up all over the world. Muggle tech dates it back to seven thousand BC— though, of course, Magicals won’t take that for fact.”

 

He makes a face, one that Albus is quite familiar with, before continuing.

 

“I couldn’t figure out what it was supposed to be, and none of the Ministry’s cursebreakers could crack it. The Unspeakables were eventually brought in as well, but they couldn’t do much, either, so it’s just been closed off under heavy wards until something better can be managed.”

 

Albus’ stomach turns.

 

“And the boy?” he asks after a moment. “Is he still alive?”

 

“If you can call it that,” James mutters, turning away. “Dad used to check on him every other day or so— the last time he went, he brought a team with him— me, the Scamanders, and a few others. Apparently Biggle had a new enchantment he thought might work, but instead it imploded— he and the Scamanders were practically incinerated, and Dad was caught in the backlash. He died a few days later. No one’s been back since.”

 

“There’ve been three other sites besides the one in Purity Forest,” Scorpius adds when James goes quiet. “Similar setup and everything, except for one difference— all the victims were Muggle.”

 

Albus nods quietly, eyes finding the blackboard again.  _ The claw of the crown… _

 

“I assume you want my help, then,” he says, looking at James. “I’ll give it, of course.”

 

Something in James’ posture relaxes.

 

“Thanks, Al,” he says, looking relieved. “If you’re half as good as the rumors say you are, you’ll be able to figure it out.”

 

Albus doesn’t know what to say to that, exactly, so he just nods, offering his brother a hand up.

 

“We should go back downstairs,” he says quietly. “Before we’re noticed.”

 

James sighs.

 

“Skeeter’s probably here somewhere,” he says, agreeing. “And you haven’t said hello to Aunt ‘Mione or Uncle Ron.”

 

Albus winces, which forces a chuckle out of his brother.

 

“You’re own fault, if they give you an earful,” James says, smile dimming into something a little more serious. “You’re the one who thought it would be a good idea to just disappear.”

 

Albus sighs.

 

“I did,” he says. “It was.”

 

James looks like he wants to argue, but instead, he lets out a deep breath.

 

“Let’s go back downstairs,” he says. “You and Scorpius ought to catch up without me, anyway.”


	5. Chapter 5

He finds Beverly first, peering into one of the smaller, decorative hearths as she leans against the mantle, a crystal goblet of wine in hand.

 

“Beverly,” Scorpius says kindly, sweeping up beside her. “Are you alright? Louis didn’t take that much out of you, surely.”

 

Beverly straightens, turning to give Scorpius a small smile.

 

“Yes, I’m fine,” she says. “Just thinking, is all. Did James—?” She trails off, looking at Albus curiously.

 

“He did, yes,” Scorpius says. “Or rather, Albus offered. James’ll probably have you take him the next free moment you have.”

 

Beverly sighs.

 

“Of course.” She looks at Albus. “I used to go with Auror Potter whenever he went to visit the site.”

 

“The boy, you mean.”

 

Beverly’s jaw clenches.

 

“Yes.”

 

She’s uncomfortable at the correction, though, that much is clear to Albus. He decides to change the subject.

 

“Who’ve they been thinking about putting in as new department head?”

 

Which isn’t much better, but. Yeah.

 

“Shacklebolt’s been talking about Corkworth, a senior Auror,” Beverly admits. “But the department wants James. Of course, we won’t know for sure until they weigh in your father’s last wishes. The reading of the will is tomorrow night, along with his final wishes for the department.”

 

Right. Department Heads get a chance to put their own two cents in when it comes to replacements. They have letters written up in case anything happens to them.

 

“And by Uncle Harry’s count, it’ll be Bev here, surely,” Louis says, sliding into place beside Beverly like he’d always been there, his own goblet in hand. “She was his protege.”

 

He nudges her, grinning when she flushes pink.

 

“I’m too young,” she says, looking away. “Younger than James, even.”

 

“Only by five years,” Scorpius points out. “Not that much at all.”

 

Beverly doesn’t answer, shifting uncertainly from foot to foot.

 

“Albus!”

 

Albus winces as his aunt’s imperious voice cuts through the awkward moment like a hot knife. Scorpius, on the other hand, has to stifle a giggle.

 

“Time to pay the ferryman,” he says quietly, glancing over at Albus. “Go. The quicker you do it, the quicker it’ll be over.”

 

Albus sighs.

 

“You used to say that about homework,” he says, already turning towards the source of the voice. “Never did me much good then, either.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


“There’s post for you,” Louis informs him when Albus comes down to breakfast the next morning, mouth full of what looks to be a broccoli and steak omelette. He’s dressed in uniform, a light green, long-sleeved tunic under a high-collared brown leather shirt made of what looks to be dragonhide. Both appear to have been fireproofed, judging by the embroideries Albus can see edging the garments.

 

“Really? From who?”

 

“James,” Charlie says, passing over a hastily wax-sealed letter. “It was a Ministry owl.”

 

Ah. About the case, then. Frowning, Albus digs his thumbnail under the seal, cracking it open and unfolding the letter.

  
  


_ Al, _

 

_ Beverly should be coming over at seven o’clock to pick you up. I’ll be meeting you outside of Purity Forest, to lead you to the site. Bring any tools necessary for your usual work, and maybe a few things outside of the usual. Just in case. _

 

_ I’ll see you there. _

_ James _

  
  


“What does your brother want, Albus?” Fleur asks, setting down a plate piled high with cheesy eggs and potatoes in front of him.

 

Albus folds up the letter and shoves it into the pocket of his vest.

 

“Some help with a case,” he says. “Apparently Ministry cursebreakers weren’t good enough for him.”

 

“I think I know the one you’re talking about,” Bill says, shuddering. “Nasty business.”

 

Of course James called Uncle Bill. He’s the best damn cursebreaker in Britain.

 

Albus sighs.

 

“Right,” he says, picking up his fork. “Auror Bones will be coming for me at ten.”

 

“That’s enough time for a second helping,” Fleur says, smiling brightly at him from her seat across from him. For all that Grandma Weasley’s her mother-in-law, she takes a lot after her.

 

Rolling his eyes good-naturedly but doesn’t argue.

 

He won’t win, anyway.

  
  


*.*

  
  


Beverly isn’t wearing her dress uniform when she knocks on Aunt Fleur’s door, of course. Instead, she’s wearing the regular dailies all Aurors wear— a red, dragonhide waistcoat over a uniform black shirt, black pants, and a heavy, spell-resistant cloak. She greets his relatives with a curt, nervous sort of nod before offering Albus a thin, gloved hand.

 

“I’ll see you in a few hours, I think,” Albus says tugging on a faded brown leather jacket and scooping up the faded medical bag he’d long since converted into a cursebreaker’s kit.

 

“Be careful, Al,” Bill says, wrapping a loose arm around his wife’s shoulders and squeezing. “It’s nasty stuff.”

 

“What stuff?” Al hears Louis asks, but he’s saved from having to answer when Beverly slips her hand around his bicep and pulls, apparating him away.

 

Albus hates apparition— he never bothers with it, himself— and can’t find it in himself to be embarrassed when he staggers away from her upon landing, catching himself on a tree trunk before vomiting wetly into the dirt.

 

“Alright, Al?” A heavy hand finds his shoulder where he’s bent over, heaving miserably. “Need me to hold your hair?”

 

“Fuck off, Jay,” Albus mutters, straightening. James is in uniform as well, looking dashing with his hair tied back and his no doubt prescription sunglasses. Albus would feel somewhat underdressed if it weren’t for the fact that he didn’t really care.

 

“No need to get nasty, Al— just thought you might need the help.” Albus ignores him, digging a filthy handkerchief out of his pocket and wiping his mouth as he straightens.

 

“I hate apparition,” he informs his brother dully.

 

“Still? Al, you’re twenty-seven years old. Nobody still gets apparition-sickness at twenty-seven years old.”

 

“I’ve found other ways to get where I need to be,” Al says, turning to peer into the forest. “This is it?”

 

“Purity Forest, yeah,” James’ smile dims. “The rangers told me they’ve been moving the unicorns to a sanctuary out in the moors— whatever magic’s been done, it’s affecting the population.”

 

Albus hums.

 

“How is it affecting them?” he asks, turning back to his brother.

 

“They’re becoming more aggressive,” James says. “Charging at visitors, that sort of thing. Their horns are changing, too— something about strange growths at the base— and there are even some reports that their coats are darkening.” He looks to Beverly. “We’ve got to be on our guard— the unicorns that have been affected the worst have been sighted circling the ritual site. There are a few rangers working on corralling them, but they’ve had no luck yet.”

 

Beverly nods sharply.

 

“Of course, sir.”

 

Satisfied, James turns back to Albus.

 

“C’mon,” he says, shoulders squaring as he draws his wand. “Let’s go.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: There's some Frankenstein-meets-Satanic ritual gore involving a child in this chapter. Don't worry, though— the kid lives! Sorta.

 

The air is heavy with tainted, thick magic that Albus needs a moment to accustom himself to, rolling from the keypoint of the ritual site in dark, ugly waves.

 

The altar is made of heavy, gray stone, its seven corners expertly carved to lethal points. There are rivets carved into the flat of the thing, a steady flow of fresh blood trickling through them like the world’s most horrific irrigation system before draining in a sluggish dribble down the sides of the altar. High above, bodies hang from the branches by their ankles, skeletal arms waving listlessly through the air as the forest creaks and groans around them. It seems the Aurors couldn’t get them down, affected by the same magic that affects the altar, and the boy splayed out across it.

 

It takes Albus a moment to get his bearings. He’s seen his fair share of dismemberment before— it’s hard not to, in his line of work— but never, in all his experience in the field, has he seen it look so fresh.

 

Because the boy is still alive.

 

He’s split apart at the joints, that much is immediately clear— his fingers are split into pieces at the knuckles, his arms severed neatly at the elbows and shoulders, his legs separated at the ankle, then the knee, then the hip. His head rests at the edge of the table, face covered by what must be his own ribcage. It’s almost a blessing, Albus thinks distantly, circling to get a better look. The boy’s chest and abdomen had been cut open, allowing a full, unfettered view of his of his writhing intestines, his inflating-then-deflating lungs, and the steady tightening of his heart.

 

“Hello? Is someone there?”

 

Albus doesn’t startle, but it’s a near thing. Instead, he smiles.

 

“Hello,” he says politely. “My name’s Albus. What’s yours?”

 

“Lucas,” the boy says. “Albus? Like Albus Dumbledore?”

 

“Sort of— I was named after him.” Albus reaches out to touch, hissing when his fingers are met with a sharp shock about six inches above the altar. “I’m Albus Black.”

 

He ignores the annoyed huff James lets out somewhere behind him. Albus had taken the name the moment his father informed him he was to be given the Lordship— a neat way to banish him from the family without outright disowning him, if Mr. Malfoy’s rather sour analysis was to be believed. He’d been sixteen, then, and he hadn’t gone by Potter since.

 

“Oh! You’re Mr. Harry’s son!” Lucas says, diaphragm twitching. “He said you’re the best cursebreaker in the _ world.” _

 

“That’s nice of him,” Albus says. “Did he talk to you a lot about me? Or about anybody else?”

 

“Well, not really,” Lucas admits. “He told me about you, and about Hogwarts, and how when they fixed me I’d go too, to learn magic.”

 

Albus forces a laugh.

 

“Well, he was quite right,” Albus agrees, circling the altar carefully. “There’s always a place for a smart boy like yourself, Lucas.”

 

The symbols painted on the table are mostly in Gr’ishaark, like Scorpius and James had said earlier, but there are other things there, as well.

 

“Where’s Mr. Harry, Mr. Albus?” Lucas asks in the sort of voice that should be accompanied by a child’s swinging feet. “Last time he was here he got hurt, and he hasn’t been back since.”

 

“He— he died, Lucas,” Beverly says, stepping up carefully to the other side of the altar. “I’m sorry.”

 

“Oh. Is he in heaven, then?”

 

“What did Biggle do, when he tried to break the curse?” Albus asks, ignoring Beverly’s halting conversation in favor of his brother. “Did he say what he thought it might be?”

 

“An enchantment derived from the Dismemberment Ward,” Beverly answers, looking up from Lucas when James stays silent. “I helped him with the research.”

 

Well, that’s all wrong, Albus thinks, dropping his bag and crouching to get a closer look at the markings that look the most familiar. The Dismemberment Ward has a distinctly Tibetan flavor to the magic, nothing like what’s emanating from the altar.

 

“... This is Aramaic, though,” he mutters, sitting back on his heels. “Aramaic… the Eternal Death Spell, maybe? Combined with the Puzzle Piece Curse, it could— no, that’s not right. The splits are too neat, and the blood’s fresh.” He looks up. “Hey, Lucas?”

 

“Yes, Mr. Black?”

 

“Are you in pain?”

 

There’s a pause.

 

“Not anymore,” the boy admits. “Now I don’t even feel scared.”

 

Oh, no.

 

“Do you feel anything?”

 

“Different, definitely.” The boy pauses. “Maybe a little cold.”

 

Oh, no no no no no.

 

“Has there been anyone else here? Besides my dad and the other Aurors, I mean.” Albus snaps open his bag, reaching in blindly.

 

“No,” Lucas says, almost serene. “Just the unicorns.”

 

Merlin, Morgana, and Mordred be damned, Albus thinks, pulling out one pistol, then its brother.

 

“Al, what’s up with the guns?” James asks uncertainly, backing up as Albus pushes himself to his feet.

 

“Muggle movies taught me one thing, and its worked pretty well so far,” Albus says. “If there’s no answer, shoot it.” He aims the pistol at the base of the altar. “Don’t move Lucas, alright? It’s all going to be fine.”

 

“Mr. Black, maybe—”

 

A horse screams and Albus leaps back, just barely dodging the long, curved horn that had been aimed at his heart.

 

“Holy fuck!”

 

Spells start flying, bouncing off the shield protecting the altar in a game of Stun the Unicorn. It’s big— the size of a Clydesdale, if not bigger— and a pure, unbending black. Albus has never seen a unicorn like this before, with purple fire burning in its empty sockets and smoke huffing from its nose. It looks like a demon— it _ is  _ a demon.

 

James shouts as his wand flies from his hand, a fumble cause by an unsuspecting tree root. He hits the dirt and rolls, shoving himself onto his back as the creature takes aim. Beverly throws a stunner, making direct contact with its flank, but the unicorn doesn’t even pause, rearing back with another scream before stabbing downward.

 

James gasps, the breath knocked out of him. Albus looks— he has to look, he must— and sees the tip of the creature pull back, ebony horn tipped with too-red, human blood.

 

Albus raises his pistols numbly and takes aim.

 

“No!” Someone shouts, but it’s too late. Gunshots echo through the forest. The unicorn throws back its great head, a strange, rumbling tone escaping its torn throat where the bullet had ripped clean through flesh and sinew. It turns towards Albus, taking one step, two, before collapsing, letting out a final, tremulous whinny before going still.

 

“Amaranth, no!” A figure leaps out of the trees, moving towards the unicorn until he freezes, Albus’ pistol pressed under his chin.

 

“Who are you?” Albus snarls, his other hand fisting in the man’s shirt and lifting him up against a tree.

 

“French!” The man chokes, holding up his hands. “Riker French! I’m a forest ranger!”

 

There’s something off about the way he looks, Albus realizes, eyes narrowing as he peers into the man’s face. He looks gaunt, unkempt, his features distorted. Pointed ears, pupiless eyes (one gold, one sightless blue), corpse blue skin…

 

“What the fuck _ are  _ you?” Albus whispers, squinting.

 

“Mr. Black!” Beverly cries, breaking Albus from the grip of scientific curiosity.

 

“How is he?” he asks, dropping the man like a sack of potatoes, though refusing to turn his back on him.

 

“Losing blood, and quickly,” Beverly says, red-stained hands pressed over the wound. “He needs the hospital!”

 

“What’s happening?” Lucas asks from the altar. Riker lets out a strangled scream.

 

Albus doesn’t have time for this.

 

“Take him to St. Mungo’s,” he orders. “I’ll handle this.”

 

“Mr. Black—”

 

_ Go.”  _ He snarls. “I’ll be fine.”

 

Beverly startles at his tone, fumbling for her wand in the dirt where she’d dropped it. Her fingers curl around the handle, and with a twitch she and James disappear with a crack.

 

Albus rounds back on Riker.

 

“You,” he says, jabbing the man in the ribs with his pistol. “Sit.”

 

Riker crumples to the forest floor beside the unicorn, trembling silently.

 

“Wand.”

 

Riker doesn’t move. Albus reaches out and cuffs him over his ginger head.

 

“Wand!” he demands.

 

“Haven’t got it!” Riker chokes out, ducking his head. “It’s been gone for weeks!”

 

“I don’t believe you,” Albus says fiercely, cuffing him again.

 

“Honestly!” Riker looks up from under his greasy bangs. “It— something happened, it stopped working! I couldn’t even get sparks!”

 

Albus frowns at him, then moves to reload his pistols.

 

“You move, I shoot you,” he warns the ranger. “These bullets are silver— good for anything magical, weird blue goblins included.”

 

“Wha— I’m not a goblin!”

 

“Whatever you are, hold your tongue and stay  _ put.”  _ Albus cocks his pistols. “I’ll deal with you in a moment.”

 

Riker keeps quiet, and after a moment, Albus turns back to the altar. He has to do this quickly. The sooner he shoots, the sooner the boy is put out of his misery, and the sooner he can shove Riker into his bag and head for the hospital.

 

He pulls the trigger. The air around the altar shudders, then explodes outward, blowing Albus and Riker back against the trees.

 

“What the fuck was that?” Riker demands, wheezing.

 

Albus doesn’t answer. The magic that had been pressing on his mind dissipates so suddenly he blacks out, just for a moment, the world fading out before returning again.

 

“Manual cursebreaking,” Albus mutters, pushing himself back up to his feet. “When in doubt, silver can usually cut through a ward, though the consequences can be deadly.” He looks at the grass surrounding the altar, noting how it didn’t look nearly so withered before. “A few feet closer and we would’ve been grease spots.”

 

“Oh, well, thanks for the warning,” Riker mutters, pushing himself up to his elbows.

 

Albus snorts.

 

“Mr. Black, did it work?” comes a small voice from the altar. Riker jumps again, and this time, so does Albus.

 

“I— I’m not sure, Lucas,” Albus says, looking over at the altar. “Do you… feel any different?”

 

He certainly doesn’t look any different— still a series of body parts, all laid out like puzzle pieces on a coffee table.

 

“Not really,” Lucas admits.

 

Well, that’s not good.

 

“... Okay.” Albus reaches out to touch the altar, braced for a shock. Nothing comes, and instead, his fingers meet bloody, sticky stone.

 

“Mr. Black?”

 

Hesitantly, Albus reaches out, wrapping shaky fingers around flesh-wet child-ribs, taking them away from the boy’s face.

 

“It worked!” the boy says brightly, then freezes, blue eyes staring out at his own body, laid out so carefully before him. “Oh.”

 

“... Maybe you shouldn’t look at that,” Albus says, hands hovering awkwardly before cupping the boy’s head and lifting it from the altar. There’s a beat where he can’t help but stare, Lucas staring back just as intently.

 

“Mum would call you a chicken-legged rockstar, with a haircut like that,” Lucas informs him. “Do you get to have long hair when you’re magic?”

 

“Um.” Albus looks up, thrusting the head into Riker’s chest and feeling a wave of gratefulness when the man instinctively moves to catch it.

 

“Hold him for me, would you?” he asks, already turning away to reach into his bag. “I think— there!” He pulls out… a garbage bag. That’s not going to look right, but it’ll do for now.

 

“Okay, Lucas,” Albus says, turning to the altar. “Everything’s gonna be fine. We’re gonna put you back together again, exactly as you were.” Oh, Merlin, is that a kidney or the kid’s liver?

 

“You look funny,” Lucas informs Riker. “Were you always blue, or were you in a horrible accident?”

 

“Blue? I’m not— what?”

 

“You’re blue, French, get over it,” Albus says, grimacing as he counts out toes.

 

“You really are, sir,” Lucas says earnestly.

 

Riker huffs.

 

“Maybe I am,” he says, though he doesn’t sound like he believes him. “But who are you to judge?  _ You’re _ a talking head!”

 

Albus feels the facepalm in his soul, but he can’t do it right now.

 

After all, his hands are covered in child guts.


	7. Chapter 7

The Black Vale is technically the ancestral Black Family home, for all that it’s gone unused outside of the occasional holiday since the late nineteenth century. Still, Albus is the Lord of the House, and it opens to him just as easily as Grimmauld does. Albus prefers it out of the two, as it’s less likely to attract attention from Muggles— mostly because there are none within some ten miles of the place.

 

There are, however, a lot of werewolves, complete with heightened senses that pick up on the smell of death coming from the garbage bag slung over Albus’ shoulder. Even without the smell, however, they’d’ve been pretty much clued in that there’s something strange afoot. After all, Albus did show up with a blue, pointy-eared stranger, and that stranger did happen to be carrying a child’s head.

 

That tends to draw odd looks, even from werewolves.

 

From the looks of it, the idea of a peaceful life and full bellies proved too tempting to pass up— the Black Vale Pack seems to have tripled, since Albus had been here last.

 

Now, if only he can track down his steward—

 

“Al!”

 

A dark blur rushes at Albus from just on the edge of his peripheral vision, slamming into his side with all the force a fully grown man can throw.

 

“Hey, Cosmo,” he grunts, dropping his medical bag in favor of keeping the body bag from hitting the dirt. “Please let go.”

 

“With pleasure.” Cosmo steps back, nose wrinkled with distaste. “You smell Dark, Al— even more than usual.”

 

“That’d be because of him,” Albus says, jerking a thumb at Lucas’ head. “I’ve got the rest of him in here.” He shakes the bag pointedly, and Cosmo grimaces.

 

“How—”

 

“No idea,” Albus says shortly. “But I’m thinking I’m going to need a handful of people to help. I know enough about anatomy to put the pieces in the right spot, but I’m going to need help sewing him back together. My cross-stitch leaves much to be desired.”

 

Cosmo barks out a little laugh, but it doesn’t lessen the slightly green tinge to his face.

 

“I’ll see if I’ve got anybody on hand,” he says. He looks back at Lucas’ head. “Somebody who isn’t squeamish.”

 

Albus gives him a curt nod. “Thanks. I’ll be setting up shop in lab four— just send them my way when you’ve got ‘em. French, with me.”

 

The blue-skinned man startles, having been preoccupied with glaring back at the werewolves who’d been staring, before making a face.

 

“You can’t order me around, you know,” he says, already moving to fall in step beside Albus. “I’ve got ten years on you, at least, and you’re supposed to _ respect  _ your elders.”

 

“I’m the Lord of the Ancient and Noble House Black,” Albus says without breaking stride. “And you’re a halfblood at best. Suck it up.”

 

“That’s racist.”

 

“Yeah, probably. But I’ve got more money than you, I think, and I’m being nice enough not to cut your head off, as is my right as a Lord. You assaulted me, remember?” he adds when Riker opens his mouth to protest.

 

“I… didn’t mean it?”

 

Albus rolls his eyes.

 

“Just shut up, French.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


Elijah Booke was a Squib before he was turned during the Second Wizarding War, and currently serves as a surgeon in the nearby Muggle hospital. He gets to work without much fuss, leaving Albus to handle his blue tagalong.

 

He’d rather go to St. Mungo’s, of course, but French needs to be assessed— whatever it is that’s happened to him, it may prove useful to the healers.

 

Riker is seated on one of the stiff cots in the medical bay, freshly-showered and dressed in soft, light brown robes that one of Kreacher’s daughters— Minky, if Albus remembers correctly— had brought for him. The blue tone of his skin is a little less pronounced, now that the dirt’s been washed away, but he looks no less alien. In fact, he looks rather monstrous.

 

“What were you doing in the forest?” Albus asks as he readies a syringe for blood-drawing. “Rangers were ordered to clear out after they rounded up the healthy unicorns.”

 

“We thought we might be able to figure out what was wrong with the unicorns if we had proper samples,” Riker says, eyeing the needle unhappily. “Four of us stayed behind to try and capture the infected, to quarantine them and study them properly, try and find a cure.” He pauses, mouth twisting. “After three weeks, Bridget disappeared. Two weeks after that, so did Caroline, and a month later, Isabella was gone, too.”

 

“Why didn’t you alert the authorities?” Albus asks, frowning at him. “There were Aurors visiting the site constantly since it was first reported.”

 

“Yeah, and it’s been under wards up until that explosion took everyone out— ouch!” he flinches when Albus jabs the needle in just a little too hard.

 

“Oops, missed the vein,” Albus says, tugging it back out again. “Why didn’t you leave, then?”

 

Riker shifts uncomfortably.

 

“We tried,” he says. “When Bridget disappeared. But every time we got within half a mile of the border, we’d get attacked.” He hisses when Albus pierces him again, but otherwise keeps quiet, reaching up to rub absently at the scar that crosses his bad eye. “There’s anti-apparition wards up, normally, you know, so we couldn’t apparate, and we didn’t have any floo powder… eventually we started running low on food and water, started hunting and whatnot…” He trails off, voice dipping into a near-whisper. “They’re attracted to blood.”

 

Albus decides to give him a moment and pulls blood instead, frowning when...

 

“French,” he says slowly. “Don’t panic, alright?”

 

“What? What’s wrong—” Riker’s eyes find the the syringe. “Mr. Black?”

 

“Yeah, French?”

 

“I’m gonna scream.”

 

And then he does, releasing a shriek so viciously high-pitched that Albus can’t help but clamp a hand over his mouth. The syringe clatters to the ground, tar-colored blood splattering across Albus’ shoes when it shatters.

 

“For fuck’s sake, French, calm down!” he hisses, tugging a handkerchief out of his back pocket to pick up the largest shard of glass. “It’s just a little blood!”

 

“My blood’s supposed to be _ red,  _ last I checked,” French hisses, looking faint. “Add to the fact that I’m not supposed to be  _ blue—” _

 

“Yeah. Funny how shit like that happens, right?” Albus sighs, twisting the glass in his hand to watch the blood roll from one side to the other. It’s thicker than fresh blood ought to be, moving sluggishly along its path across the glass. “I’m gonna have to draw more.”

 

_ “Why?” _

 

“To see if I can figure out if whatever happened to you is an isolated incident, to see if it’ll kill you, if it’ll change you more.” Albus looks up. “To see if you’re contagious.”

 

Riker goes white.

 

“Contagious?” Riker squeaks. “This is magic. Magic’s a lot of things, but it’s not _ contagious.” _

 

“What’s dragon pox, then, if not a _ magical disease _ that eats at the Magical cores of wixen until their bodies collapse, unable to stand the strain?” Albus waves a hand at the mess, and after a pause, both the glass and the blood rises shakily, floating to deposit itself into a nearby wastebasket.

 

“Wait, dragon pox does what now?”

 

Sensing an opening, Albus shifts, shoulders relaxing slightly as he reaches for another syringe.

 

“There’s a small village in Borneo,” he says, dipping a cotton ball in antiseptic before wiping gently at the inside of French’s elbow. “About, six hundred or so people, Muggle and Magical alike. The Muggles knew about the Magicals— due to International standard, they were technically counted as Squibs, their cores underdeveloped to the point where they were incapable of practicing foundational magic.

 

“Because they couldn’t perform the sort of magic most first years could master, they were technically classified as Muggles, meaning that the Statute applied to them, technically— that’s why a lot of British Purebloods abandon Squibs, you know. They break the Statute just by caring for their child. Or they did— the Ministry’s relaxed their requirements for Muggle-Magical interaction some forty years ago.” The needle slides through Riker’s skin as easily as it had the first time, except this time, Riker doesn’t notice, entranced by the new information.

 

“Now, just because Squibs can’t perform foundational magic doesn’t mean they aren’t Magical,” Albus says, drawing blood with a careful tug of the plunger. “They still have cores, deformed as they may be. They can use Potions, after all. Fly brooms, enter Diagon Alley... They aren’t affected by Muggle repellant charms, either, which means, one way or another, the charms still register them as Magical.

 

“What the consequences are, however, is that when Squibs leave our society— whether they want to or not— they leave behind any hope of medical care they might need later down the road should they contract any Magical Maladies.” He pulls the needle away, hiding it quickly behind his back. “The village was struck by dragon pox shortly before I arrived. The true Muggles— the ones who weren’t just Squibs— did their best to handle the epidemic, but they lacked the spark that would give the Potions they brewed the life they needed. It wasn’t until I found the village two weeks later that they began to see any true results with the infected, and by then, nearly half of their elders died, their bodies drained of every ounce of magic.”

 

Sliding the needle into his pocket, he moves to find a bandaid— only to stop.

 

“Are you a particularly fast healer, French?” he asks, studying the soft blue flesh of Riker’s inner elbow.

 

“Er, no more than anyone else…?” Riker glances down at his arm. “Why?”

 

“Because I just poked a hole through a vein and there’s no sign of a puncture, that’s why.” Albus straightens, shaking his head. “Never mind. We’ll run a full diagnostic when I’m back from the hospital— we’re in for a long night, seeing as it’ll be a full moon.” He ignores Riker’s shudder, moving to snap his work bag shut. “I’ll have Cosmo feed you and set you up in a room for the night before he goes out to the pack. There are measures in place to keep them from breaking in and causing any damage.”

 

He gives Riker a bright, sunny smile, and pretends he doesn’t see how pale the man’s gotten under that robin’s egg skin.

 

Albus has to get his kicks somewhere, doesn’t he?


	8. Chapter 8

 

Beverly is in the waiting room when Albus finally gets to his brother’s floor, a cellphone pressed to her ear. It seems she’s one of those Modernist witches— most Pureblood girls wouldn’t be caught dead with a cellphone in public.

 

“How is he?” he asks as she puts the phone away.

 

“Perfectly alright,” Beverly says, a slight pink tinge to her cheeks when she looks at Albus. “The healers say that the wound was only superficial— it only bled the way it did due to some sort of poison, which also proved to be a mild paralytic.”

 

“Poison?”

 

“It appears to have run its course already,” Beverly assures him. “They’re keeping him overnight, though, just in case— he’s just around the corner.”

 

James has a private room, of course. It’s the policy, regarding lords.

 

“They’re overreacting, to tell the truth,” he says cheerfully, tapping his bandaged chest lightly with his palm. “But I don’t argue with healers, not after seven years with Pomfrey.”

 

Albus snorts.

 

“Besides Lucas’ apparently miraculous survival,” he says, smile dimming as he returns to their earlier topic. “I met a ranger from the sanctuary— apparently he and a few others stayed behind in an effort to corral the sick unicorns.” He straightens. “Prolonged exposure to the area surrounding the site seems to have had an affect on him. I’ll be running tests, of course… but I have no idea what to expect.”

 

James sighs, turning to Beverly.

 

“Pull Lily,” he says. “Have her added onto the case as a consultant.”

 

Albus arches an eyebrow at his brother, who shrugs.

 

“I’ve got a feeling,” he says. “Lily’s technically got her certification as a healer, so she can probably help you rule out Magical diseases, at least. And call Scorpius, too— he’ll want to be kept up to date.”

 

“Of course,” Beverly says. “I’ll call them both now.”

 

“Have them meet us here,” Albus calls as Beverly moves to leave. “I can take you all to the Vale— that’s where Riker is, and my blood samples.”

 

“That’d be fantastic, actually,” James says. “Could Scorpius set up his research there? It’d be better than leaving it in the family house where Mum can snoop— she worries a lot, you know.”

 

“Sure, I don’t mind.”

 

James gives him a bright, easy smile.

 

“You’re the best, Al.”

 

“Thanks for finally noticing, Jay.”

  
  


*.*

  
  


“I can’t come home tonight, Aunt Fleur. I’m having company at the Vale.”

 

“Does this ‘ave something to do with whatever James had you look at?” Fleur asks, concern flooding her features.

 

“Yeah, actually— but don’t worry about it. Nothing’s happened, or anything… well, besides James getting attacked by a unicorn, but he’s fine, promise.”

 

_ “What?” _

 

“Seriously, it’s fine. Superficial, the healers said.” Albus hums into the receiver. “Anyway, I’ve gotta go. I’ll stop by tomorrow, alright?”

 

Fleur sighs.

 

“Alright, Albus,” she says. “Be safe, will you?”

 

“Of course, Aunt Fleur. See you tomorrow.”

 

He ends the call, slumping back against the wall as he tucks his phone back into his vest pocket.

 

“You’re nice-sounding on the phone,” Beverly remarks, arching an eyebrow at him.

 

“Don’t let the tone fool you,” Albus says. “I’m a bossy, sarcastic bastard with an oblivious streak a mile wild.”

 

“But you’re nice to your aunt.”

 

Albus looks down.

 

“She’s my godmother,” he says. “And probably my favorite relative. I spent my summers with her and Uncle Bill, before I started Hogwarts. Lily was always at Auntie Luna’s playing with the twins and James had his own friends, even when we were little.”

 

Beverly hums.

 

“I don’t know my godmother very well,” she admits after a moment. “Aunt Hannah and mum had a falling out when I was five or so, so she stopped coming over.”

 

“Hannah Longbottom?” Albus blinks. “Her husband’s my sister’s godfather.”

 

“I’m aware.” Beverly arches an eyebrow. “Most Purebloods like keep an eye on the happenings in other Pureblood families.”

 

“Right. Sorry.”

 

Beverly inclines her head in acceptance and looks out at the dark Muggle street. St. Mungo’s is technically in the warehouse district of Muggle London, disguised as yet another condemned building. It’s strange, how dirty and unwelcoming the outside seems when compared to the warmth of the lobby just through the doors.

 

“So,” Beverly says after a moment. “The Black Vale. I’ve heard stories, you know. Everyone has.”

 

Albus hums.

 

“I don’t know why you call them stories,” he says. “I put that advert out in nearly every major newspaper and magazine in Magical Britain for about a year. It’s public record.”

 

“Yes, but that’s not what the stories are about,” she says. “It’s about _ why.” _

 

Albus’ lip quirks.

 

“Pray tell, what _ are  _ the gossip mongers saying about me?” he asks. “I lose track, while I was away.”

 

“I imagine you would,” Beverly remarks. “Well… the obvious one is that you were bitten, particularly since your adverts coincided with your sudden emancipation and Lordship. Others think it’s something to do with your cousin Teddy. There are also theories regarding a sex cult—” Albus snorts. “— or harem, as well as a serial killer theory, an army worthy of a Dark Lord, or just plain philanthropy.” She gives him a quicksilver smile. “That one isn’t particularly popular.”

 

Albus is quiet, thoughtfully watching as a rat emerges from the sewer and makes its way onto the opposite curb.

 

“I like history, as a hobby,” he says after a moment. “All kinds. When I was a kid, it was a party trick, my debates with Grandpa Arthur or Aunt Hermione. I used to ask questions, about why things happened the way they did, why things weren’t changed when new facts were presented that disproved older theories. When I got older, though, I started getting frustrated with the answers I was given, and my questions stopped being cute. I no longer had a mind for politics, I was annoying.

 

“My questions stuck with me, though, and eventually came up with my own solutions. I mean, I’ve always known I’d take the Black Lordship, since James was the firstborn and all, and the Black Family still had a mountain of money, even after forty years of inactivity… I figured I could do something with it, and clean up the Black Family name in the process. When my Dad gave me the Lordship early, well… it was the first thing I thought to do, once I got a look at the estate.”

 

“How many wolves accepted the offer?” Beverly asks. “Work, room, and board is something I imagine most would accept, given the circumstances of most.”

 

“At first? Not many.” Albus tilts his head, one hand fumbling in his vest pocket for his cigarettes. “Seven people, five adults and a Muggleborn woman and her son, who’d been bitten three years before. Then I talked to a few pack leaders, convinced them to give it a try, and then they told their allies when it started going well, and then… well, according to the last census, there are some ten thousand souls living in the Vale.”

 

Beverly’s mouth parts in shock.

 

“There are _ ten thousand  _ werewolves in Britain?”

 

“Well, a good lot of them are from the Isles— mostly the remnants of the last war and their families— but most of them are from overseas, now. France, America, Germany, China, Japan… I think something like fifty-two percent of the population are immigrants, currently.” Albus smiles at her, cigarette clamped between his teeth. “I’m working on opening a second property in conjunction with a vampire coven in Southern Romania who owe me a favor— they’re open to the idea of a werewolf population on their land in return for protection from vampire hunters and other enemies.” He shrugs, lighting his cigarette with the tip of his finger and breathing in deeply. “It probably will end up favoring a certain kind of wolf, but… if it works, you know?”

 

Smoke blows out of his nose and into Beverly’s face, who still looks pale.

 

“Ten thousand werewolves?” she repeats. “That’s—”

 

“Roughly half of the population of Wizarding Britain? Yeah. Hence the second location.” Albus leans back against the brick. “Don’t worry— the house wards won’t allow them in during the full moon. We’ll be safe, for the night.”

 

Beverly nods, looking away quickly. Albus isn’t particularly surprised by the reaction— most wix don’t really know what to do when faced with uncomfortable concepts like werewolves.

 

It’ll probably be alright, though.

 

“Lord Black?” A sweet voice calls from the door. “Lord Black, a Miss Lily Potter and a Mr. Malfoy are waiting for you in the lobby.”

 

“Excellent. Nurse, could you direct them out here? I have a car coming for us.” Albus plasters on a warm, apologetic smile as he holds up his cigarette.

 

The nurse rolls her eyes.

 

“Tobacco kills, you know,” she says as she slips back inside.

 

“How do you know I’m smoking tobacco?” he calls after her as the door closes with a snap.

 

Beverly arches an eyebrow.

 

“That’s not a cigarette?” she asks, nodding to his occupied hand.

 

“Well, yeah, it is— but she didn’t know that.”

 

“You’ve clearly lost your sense of smell, then.”

 

“A car, Albus? Since when do you have a car?” Scorpius demands as he bursts out of the hospital, pushing a heavy black trunk as Lily floats behind him. “Also, why couldn’t you have the car pick us up instead of making us come here? I hate hospitals.”

 

“I didn’t think too hard about the arrangements, sorry.” Albus pulls out his cellphone, pausing to fiddle with something on the screen before pressing it to his ear. “Cosmo? Yes, we’re all ready.”

 

He hangs up and tucks the phone back in his pocket, flicking away the cigarette before accepting a hug from Lily.

 

“I didn’t know you held certification as a healer,” he says when he pulls away.

 

“It’s really not that important,” Lily says, shrugging. “I’ve certifications coming out of my ears, I’ve got so many bloody certifications. It’s a lot of paperwork, being a hedgewitch these days.”

 

“I can’t begin to imagine,” Albus says agreeably, turning to watch as a black cab rolls to a halt on the street beside them. “Alright, everybody in— Scorpius, you can throw that in the boot.”

 

“Here, I’ll help you with that, Mr. Malfoy,” Cosmo says, already circling the cab to take it from Scorpius’ hands, which he does easily, considering the blond is barely eye-to-eye with the wolf’s bulging chest and carrying probably only a quarter of Cosmo’s overall muscle mass.

 

“My steward,” Albus says by way of explanation when Scorpius turns to look at him, slack-jawed and eyes dazed. “Cosmo Wright, Head of the Vale Pack.”

 

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Wright!” Lily chirps, already bouncing into the Extended backseat.

 

“And you as well, Miss Lily,” Cosmo says, turning to look at Albus. “Shall I have Peggy make up the guest rooms?”

 

“Just in case,” Albus says. “I can’t imagine what we have to talk about will be settled before moonrise.”

 

“Moonrise?” Scorpius frowns. “Today’s the full moon?”

 

“Yep,” Albus says. “Always a treat in the Vale. Come on— dinner’s early tonight.”


End file.
